"shrove" poems
Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for S&M; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of *** She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
perhaps it is apt
the first pancake
is always
a disappointment
stodgy
anaemic
without that light
crisped perfection
we've come to expect
it is undercooked
typically
as the ideal
frying time
is gauged
incorrectly at first
it will be
plated with
accompanying pleas
for forgiveness
and absolution
but as penance
someone has to
suffer this
pariah's offering
with each mouthful
comes thoughts
of apology
of atonement
of promises
it will be better
next time
Feb 27, 2023
Feb 27, 2023 at 5:56 AM UTC
me?
i'm slayer's
raining blood
from their seminal album
reign in blood,
pretty much most of the time:
a narrative rather than a thought
comes once in a while,
and i hunchback myself
into position... and write;
it's really Notre Dame with
fond memories of Paris...
but hey, Darwinism's approach
to history will make any
man kick a few buckets and coffins
in-between hushing out 40 candles
on a birthday cake and climbing
into a coffin that's the Matador -
ooh hey hanky-panky handkerchief
in hand, waving on my free-fall down
to become more than just carbon residue
of dinosaur, liquorice and Arab decadence...
Shrove Tuesday more like.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
Winter amassed his victories
With cold clear spears,
Lined along eaves;
Cannon clouds hurling
Swirling whiteouts,
Blades of wind rifling
Body armor.
But battles aren't wars.
Spring's cavalry
Comes charging.
We're flipping suns,
Pouring golden sweet rays,
And fattening-up
For the final on-slaught
Of a battle weary warrior.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
Deep within our hearts
There lies an ancient grove
Growing day by day
Our soul's weight it shrove
None can burn its leaves
None can harm its bark
It waits in our hearts
'Till death shall turn it dark
Death comes, and death goes
And many men depart
But the grove remains
An eternal work of art
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC